A Dream of a Red Door Ch. 02

THE SIMMERING

"Daenerys," Jon said as he closed the door that led from their bedchamber to the much larger suite of rooms beyond.

He didn't get further than her name before she interrupted him. "We rule together," she reminded him. "That was part of our arrangement. Together! When our Hand ... our Hand ... suggests that we murder a young girl, our relative, even if it's rather distant, you need to be agreeing with me, not shaming me in front of our small council."

Jon stared at her in bewilderment. "Tyrion suggested no such thing, and even if he had, that's no cause to threaten to execute him ... it was a meeting!"

"I know what it's like to be far from your true home, to fear assassins lurking behind every corner, to be afraid of the shadows," she hissed. "I will not be another Robert Baratheon ... how could you side against me?"

Jon sat down on the bed and looked at her. "First, Tyrion didn't suggest we kill the Blackfyre girl, he was running down a list of options." Jon bowed his head and ran his hands through his hair. "Second, I would also like to point out that the very first option he mentioned was, and I quote, 'to simply leave her alone.'"

Daenerys's retort was immediate, "Well, then he was too glib about the whole thing. When you include 'kill her' on your list of possibilities, it means you might want to do it!"

"You have a point there," Jon admitted as he raised his head. "But it's Tyrion! He's always like that, and you still can't just tell him you're going to lop his head off."

Daenerys's eyes sparkled with anger. "Robert Baratheon sent assassins after me and Jorah Mormont to spy on me, Tyrion knows this. My Hand should have known better than to even voice it as an option."

Jon rubbed his forehead. "Daenerys, if you threaten to kill advisors who say things you don't like, you'll very quickly find that nobody says anything except what they're sure you want to hear."

She gave a small shake of her head and pursed her lips in irritation. "Why do you keep coming back to my threatening to kill him? You and Tyrion and the small council knows I didn't mean it."

Jon looked away but did not reply. She waited for him to agree with her, and when it didn't come, Daenerys shivered for a moment. The room suddenly felt very cold and still.

"You need to apologize to Tyrion," he finally said.

Her eyes widened in anger. "I will do no such thing."

"You will," he informed her, "and ...

"You will NOT order me!"

"It's not an order, it's pointing out what's right," Jon said as he stood from the bed and pointed at her. "King or queen, lowborn or highborn, right is right, and wrong is wrong. You lost your temper, but now I understand that it was a sensitive subject for you ... I'd have understood it during the meeting, too, if you'd bother to explain it. That being said," he pointed at her, "bloody hell Daenerys, I thought you had finally gotten it through your head that when you threaten to kill someone, people take it very seriously."

It always lingered over everything she did. She could never be free of it, never make it better. She could sit on the throne every day and defy her own instincts and let selfish, awful people get better than they deserve, and she could let Jon take back her kingdom, piece by piece, and lose good men in the process, instead of simply unleashing Drogon, and she could try to find some salve for her conscience in submitting to his advice, and in other ways, but it would never be

enough. The burnt corpses would not spring back to life and the whispers of the mad queen's rampage would never go away.

I've had enough.

"Jon, you push me too far," she said quietly.

He breathed deeply, ran his hand through his hair again, and sat in the large, oversized chair she didn't particularly care for, that he always kept near the fireplace. "I push you too far? Tyrion asked for my word that he'd survive until the morning, and when I gave it, I don't know if he believed me."

"It is my small council, he is my Hand, and it is my kingdom!" she screamed.

He looked at her. "What, do you think I want any of this?" he gestured towards the open window of their balcony towards King's Landing. "All I wanted is you."

"Of course," she snapped, "so long as I would do your bidding."

"What is happening?" he asked in befuddlement. "We're past this. The realm is beginning to work again, you're doing ..."

"Do not say that I am doing 'better,'" she interrupted.

What do you want me to say then? What is really bothering you?"

A mass of anger seemed to be lodged in her chest, and she was struggling to choke it free and calm down. "We rule together," she said. "What happens in our bedroom does not mean you can shame me in front of my small council."

Jon opened his eyes wide in shock. "My intervening between you and Tyrion has nothing to do with that."

I've left this too long unsaid, and it's been eating away at me.

"Everything between us is always about that. Noblewomen whisper giggling stories of silk scarves binding their hands to headboards, and I must bite my tongue, for my husband goes far beyond such pleasures."

"Is this how you see us?" Jon stood up at that and walked over to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Daenerys Stormborn, we rule together, and we take our pleasures together."

"You gave me no choice," she accused him.

He blinked in confusion. "A choice about what?"

As she pulled the splinter free from her soul, the clotted anger threaded into her words. "I was hated here, and you were loved, and I loved you. If I said no to anything you wanted ... anything ... what then for me? I wait for someone to sink a knife into my heart?"

"You have never been ..."

"Forced?" she interrupted again. "I submit, or you stalk off to commiserate with your wolf. You vanish into the night, and I sit here in our bedchamber cold and alone."

Jon's eyes seemed hollow and gaunt as he looked at her. "You've told me many times you ..."

"Enjoy it?" she said. "I do, but I do not wish our private affairs to affect how we rule. You cannot order me to apologize to Tyrion or anyone else, Jon. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am tired of constantly worrying about your approval, or whether I am hurting anyone's feelings, or whether a criminal has lost too many fingers."

Jon turned away from her and faced the hearth. The fire still burned, but lower than it had a few minutes ago. Daenerys found herself irritated at the servants for not ensuring that it had been properly stoked.

Jon didn't turn when he spoke to her. "I love you Daenerys," he intoned softly. "But ... so many bad things have happened to you."

"And?"

He hung his head. "I want nothing more than to help you be whole, and happy, and with whatever haunting you gone from your mind, and I want to be with you ... but maybe it's not enough." The flames in the fireplace flickered for a second, and a chill seemed to creep over the room.

She waited to see if he would continue, and he did, but it was a long time coming.

"Do as you will," he said softly.

The flames of the hearth had guttered to a feeble flicker at that point, and she had to rub her arms against the growing cold.

Daenerys left Jon to his moping and stalked through the door and into the far more extravagantly decorated main rooms of the royal quarters. The balcony was uncurtained, letting in a sizable draft, but she felt confined, trapped, and had to find space.

She trod across the stone of the floor until she reached the balcony's border, then she stepped outside. Somewhere in the night sky, she knew, Drogon hunted, and below her, the lights of King's Landing spread in all directions as the dark sea lapped at the piers.

Knives had followed her everywhere she went, and her entire life she had always known fear. Viserys hadn't cared, but Viserys had been a fool. Drogo hadn't cared, but Drogo was large, and she was small, and besides, her Khal was long dead.

Did I really threaten to execute Tyrion?

She had threatened to kill Tyrion, and suddenly, the moment came back to her, the small council looking at her with a mixture of terror and concern, and then her rage growing when she realized that they were turning to Jon in the hopes that he might say or do something to control the mad queen ... she knew that's what they called her behind her back ... right now, they were all probably plotting to ...

Daenerys gasped and blinked a few times.

What am I thinking? What am I doing?

It shocked her how quickly her rage turned to regret. She had pulled the splinter of her bitterness free only to give voice to the infection. She walked back inside, through the still-open door into her and Jon's bedchamber. The cold had grown deep and still, shadows clung oddly to the walls, and the fire had dwindled to embers. For a moment, she thought her breath misted in the air.

Jon didn't respond when she entered. She walked in front of his chair to find her husband slumped back, still staring at the fire. The next words did not come easy to her, but she took a deep breath and said them anyway, "I am sorry about some of the things I have said tonight," she informed him. "They were unfair, and they were untrue."

Jon did not reply.

A small flare of irritation curdled inside her. "I know you're angry, but you can at least talk to me."

"I'm not angry at you, Daenerys," he finally said. "I love you."

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. The shadows of the room pressed closer.

"What is happening here," she asked with growing concern as she looked about the room. The embers had dimmed so low that Jon was barely illuminated, at all.

This is magic.

Jon had magic in his blood, she knew that, but snuffing out candles or making a shadow twitch had always seemed to be the extent of the abilities he'd been granted after returning to life. This ... this was different. The darkness was creeping towards Jon, and it seemed to her like it intended to strangle him. She crouched next to the chair and shook his shoulder. "Jon!" He rotated his head to look at her. "Jon, what's happening?"

He smiled at her and raised a hand to stroke her cheek, but almost as if the weight of it was too heavy, he dropped his arm back to his side.

"Jon, please talk to me."

Jon simply sat there like a dead thing staring at a dying fire.

Her husband had told her once that fire and love bound him to this world, not life ... not true life ... and that he was, in fact, not alive. She had paid it little mind, he certainly looked alive enough to her, but now she was beginning to fear he had told her the truth.

"I'm sorry, truly," she said. "Please forgive me. You were right."

How do I help him?

On an impulse, she pressed her lips against his. They were cold, and when she held her hand against his chest, she felt no heartbeat.

"The collar," he whispered, his voice thin and wavering.

She didn't question his words, she simply rushed to the cabinet where she he kept it, began tossing items on the floor, tears forming in her eyes as she pawed through possessions trying to find it.

Where is it?

And then she saw it, gleaming behind a pair of gloves on the bottom shelf. She knelt down on all fours, retrieved the collar, and rushed towards Jon. Remembering his many warnings about not taking privacy for granted, she scrambled to the door and quickly barred it. Shadows seemed to lap at her feet as she stepped away from the heavy oak.

"Jon, I'm back," she said as she rushed over to his chair and knelt down in front of him. She pressed the collar against his hand. "I love you, please stay with me."

When he didn't move, she snapped the collar around her own neck.

He immediately sat upright in his chair and smiled at her. His sudden energy after appearing on the brink of death startled her sufficiently that she stood up and stepped away. She glanced around, and the shadows creeping along the walls and the edges of the furniture had vanished, while the fireplace seemed to be glowing hot again. She resisted the urge to hold out her hands, still cold from a few minutes ago, and warm them near the flames.

What is happening?

She slowly rotated to Jon and found him smiling broadly at her, an irritating look of satisfaction on his face. He stood, kicked away his boots, and proceeded to slowly remove his shirt.

A growing suspicion formed in Daenerys's mind.

"You didn't!" she yelled at him. "Was that a farce to torment me?"

He winked at her. "I wanted to see how much you cared."

You bastard!

As there was nothing on hand to throw at him, she stomped over and clouted him as hard as she could in the shoulder. "I thought you were dying!" She gestured around. "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Sam's been sending me instructions on how to practice," he said, sounding very proud of himself. "Makes for a good show."

He tossed his shirt aside, and she watched his muscles ripple golden in the light. She felt a flush of excitement, despite her anger. The fireplace gave the brown stubble on his jaw line a most appealing ruddy color. She forced herself to look away and cross her arms across her chest before she spoke again.

"Really, though. I hate magic ... you know what it's taken from me ... that was cruel."

His face grew more serious. "It was cruel to threaten to execute a man who's already dodged the headsman's axe on multiple occasions," he reminded her. "Seems to me like it's been a day for cruelty, and maybe you had it coming." He stood and stepped over to her. He reached out with one calloused hand, slipped his index finger under the collar, and pulled her closer to him. She felt something flutter deep inside and her feet shifted involuntarily as a warmth begin to grow in her core.

"I didn't even have to put it on you," he said, his voice halfway to a snarl.

She shifted uneasily. Jon suddenly seemed quite larger and stronger than her, and she had behaved very poorly that day.

We need to speak more about the wickedness of him playing me for the fool as to his life being in danger.

"Jon, I've lost so many people I've loved to terrible things, like magic," she explained, "promise me you won't ever do that again."

His answer was immediate. "I promise." He pulled her slightly closely with the collar, and now they were near enough that the front of her gown brushed against her shirt. "Really, I won't."

"Thank you."

He let go of the band around her neck and stepped back. He gestured towards the fireplace. "The light show, I hate doing that stuff, magic churns me up inside, but sometimes, Daenerys, you treat death as too casual a subject ... you did deserve it. But Dany, we need to make something clear, I don't want you to do anything you do not wish to do." He scratched his chin. "I'll take the collar off, toss it away, or melt it down, whatever you want ... I won't force you to do anything."

"And no matter what I decide, you will not leave me?" Daenerys asked in a hushed, hesitant whisper. In the deep corners of her mind she had always known that he would never have abandoned her for refusing the slim band of metal that had come to symbolize so much between them, but it had been easier to pretend otherwise instead of admitting the truth of her own desires.

He shook his head. "How do I put this without hurting your feelings ..."

My husband has such a way with words.

"I guess I'll be blunt," he decided, "I've let myself get too bloody much in love."

He should be a poet.

"Today was a bad day," he continued, "but you've well and truly captured my heart." She rolled her eyes as he dramatically clutched at his chest. "So, if you no longer find any peace or pleasure in our games, then fine." He sat down on the chair again. "I'm not going anywhere, either way, you're stuck with me." He pointed at her, "But, you're still going to apologize to Tyrion tomorrow."

She pursed her lips. "We'll see."

His eyes gleamed, and not in an altogether friendly fashion. "You're too bloody tough, wife."

Daenerys put her hands on her hips and tilted her head at him defiantly. "And?"

The gleam in Jon's eyes hardened further still into something more ferocious. "I think some simmering, to make you more tender, might be in order, but first you still need to make your choice. I will not have it linger between us that you feel forced into anything."

It hadn't taken her long to decide, nor much time after the choice was made for her to be kneeling with her hands behind her head, nude and dripping, on a soft, small circular rug in front of the fireplace. The fire's heat rippled across her body as she stared into its depths, and as curious as she was to see what Jon had yanked from his chest of torment, she kept her eyes staring straight ahead.

He walked in front of her and dangling from his hand was an extraordinarily long length of soft looking, thin, light brown rope, longer than she'd ever seen him use before. While his nearness was as exciting as ever, she did feel a slight of disappointment that he wasn't carrying something more ... unexpected.

Jon dropped the rope on the ground, then pulled a nearby footstool closer. She could feel his eyes contemplating her as she knelt, knees spread wide, and trembling slightly in anticipation. "Open your mouth," he ordered.

She did so, but instead of the ball or the horrid wooden dowel, he surprised her by placing a small, wadded white cloth behind her teeth.

"Close," he said.

She closed her mouth, and although she was confused at first as to what he'd done, the coppery tang she tasted on her tongue and the soft texture of the material immediately gave away that Jon had retrieved the smallclothes she'd worn that day. Her saliva mixed with the cloth and the flavor of her own arousal soon became overpowering.

Her sex was sopping when Jon reached between her legs.

She couldn't tell if it was the stress of the day, or pent-up relief over Jon's jape at her expense, but she could barely keep from shuddering, moaning, or thrusting her hips towards his hand as he teased and caressed along her groove. She tightened the hands clasped behind her head so strongly that several of her knuckles popped.

"Hands down," he said encouragingly.

Thank you.

She lowered her hands and rested them on her knees, the extra support proving heavenly. She was almost embarrassed at how quickly her release was coming. She hunched forward, and ground her teeth against the fabric in her mouth, felt wracking shudders begin to coruscate throughout her groin, and then Jon teased at her bud, gently, ever so gently, and she knew that ...

He pulled his hand away.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, moaned at the denial of what she was so close to achieving, and then Daenerys marveled that her husband knew her body so intimately that he could thwart her with such perfect timing. She looked up at him, black collar around her neck glinting red in the firelight, with needy, pleading eyes. She wondered if she could get her hands where they needed to be before he could stop her.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "Hands on top of your head, and get your eyes back on that fire."

She obediently swiveled her gaze back into position and put her hands on top of her head.

He reached down and hooked his hands beneath her armpits. "Stand."

She wondered why he was helping her, but when her legs wobbled as she rose to her feet, she realized that she had been close enough to the fire that Jon wanted to make sure she didn't topple forward. Her heart trembled at his thoughtfulness, then it resumed silently screaming at him to finish what he had started.